The Slave to Desperate Men

PROLOGUE

"Albus, do it!"

"Tonks -"

"Albus, DO IT!"

"Snape! GET DOWN!"

"OW! Tonks!!"

"I'm sorry! I slipped -"

"Terence, I need you to fly to the Northwest perimeter and find Luna Lovegood. Tell her we need aerial support, and quickly. Tell her it's time."

"Yes, sir."

"Go! Swiftly!"

"Justin, keep them away! Cover us in a tight circle, at least ten feet from the body!"

"Harry, we've got to do this."

"No, no, this isn't right. It won't work -"

"It will. We haven't got a choice."

"We do. This isn't right. He would have planned -"

"Time's running out! Let's go!"

"Wait, where's Hermione?!"

"I'm here! And I've got a Seventh!"

"Charlie, you're purple."

"Yes, so it seems. What are we doing here?"

"Everybody DOWN!"

"Fuck."

"Severus, you really must teach me that some time."

"Wait just one minute. Is that --?"

"Yes."

"And we're gonna --?"

"Yes."

"Ready!"

"At the three!"

A whisper. "Sweet mother of Merlin."

The moment would go down in every History of Magic book written from that instant on. Their names would be carved on a stone, set in the middle of a field of heather that echoed the sounds of war, and the cries of terror. Where the stone lay, no weed or flower would grow, and all who visited it felt a darkness over their minds and hearts and could not speak.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Here lies the spot where Lord Voldemort was struck dead in the early evening of the 30 of July, 2002, by the Strong Seven: Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Nymphadora Tonks, and Charles Weasley.

Here we grieve for those we lost, honour those who lived, and judge those who fought against us.

Here, we remember.

......

"Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou are not so,

For, those whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Must pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou are slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."

(Holy Sonnet X, John Donne)

Chapter One: Because It Is Bitter, Part One

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, "Is it good, friend?"

"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;

"But I like it

Because it is bitter,

And because it is my heart."

July 30, 2002

Evening

The blood was forgotten. The grey and green mist that hovered above a place once so alive curled around his insides and made him stare at a shock of white hair that lay in the midst of the ashes. The smell was something he once thought he'd gotten used to. Now, it filled him with hate.

A vision of red hair and curls ...

Blue eyes that laughed when he burned their anniversary dinner, pink child lips that screeched with excitement, "Papa! Swing me! Papa!" A flash of memory.

He tried to blink it away.

Their bodies.

So small against a backdrop of devastation. Precious creatures made even more beautiful in death and the ugliness of their surroundings.

"Papa!"

It surrounded him now. Bodies. Broken wands, blades, Muggle weapons. Friends that once knew what it was like to sit by a Sunday afternoon fire with bare feet and smiles that didn't make their eyes look old and haunted.

And now, "Father," he croaked.

The older man stood alone. His comrades had retreated. Or died. There was no need to remain. The power that had held them together for so long was now only a memory, its Master ruined.

Draco Malfoy stood with his wand by his side. Blood covered him from head to toe, most of it not his own. It had been the last battle of a war that had lasted and taken his whole life. A war that had been the vision of the man standing before him, nearly doubled over with a death that was now seeping through cold veins.

The silence was deafening. Hours, days of screaming, of blasts and shouts and orders and desperate curses. Now, there was only the wind and the mingled breaths of father and son.

"Son," Lucius Malfoy held out a hand, trying to keep himself from stumbling over the body of a Death Eater.

Draco caught him before he fell, lowering him to the ground and cradling the older man's head in his arms. White blond hair that was once long and regal had been cut by necessity into short spikes, now stained red with blood. Draco studied his father's face and found a stranger. He did not recognize the tanned skin quickly turning deathly pale, the features etched in pain and fear, eyes that had seen a life devoid of any true wealth, lived only for the pursuit of power.

Lucius grabbed Draco's hand and held it in a surprisingly hard grip. A man who once awed Draco with his grace, his power, and his poise now sputtered in pain. Blood and mucous dripped down his chin, fear darkened icy grey eyes to nearly black. And then a wicked smile. "Kill me."

Draco shook his head. Only a whisper answered, picked up by the wind and carried throughout the battlefield. "You are already dead, Lucius."

Lucius groaned. "Draco."

Draco did not notice his own tears as they splattered onto Lucius's face and trickled down in muddy rivulets. Softly, "Was it worth it, Father? My life, my mother's, my child's - was it worth this moment?"

Rage and hatred coursed through him like hot poison for the death of a life he once thought he could never deserve.

Draco's face turned red, a muscle in his neck twitched as his father gasped, "Son, you mustn't be so melodramatic. You must understand -"

"NO!" Draco screamed into Lucius's face. "NO! I will NOT understand!" Shaking with fury, he hissed into his father's ear, eyeing the devastation that surrounded him and clenching his teeth against his anger. "You understand nothing. You know only destruction. You know only corruption, Lucius. I. Hope. You. Burn."

Lucius's eyes began to cloud, his body grew heavier in Draco's arms. Draco was caught between the overwhelming urge to gather his father into his arms as tightly as he could, holding the man against death, against the darkness and coldness that his father had pressed on Draco his whole life; and the urge to throw the man away, to stomp on him, to crush him into tiny bits that scattered in the wind, forgotten.

A spasm took Lucius's body. "Draco ...as a son you could not ... have been more of a ... disappointment," he rasped, gasping as though out of breath. "Where did I go wrong, poor boy?"

Draco held in a cry and wiped blood from the older man's lips. "I hate you, Father."

"Hate," Lucius whispered, the demonic smile flittering across his pale features. "Now, there is Malfoy in you yet, boy." The smile faded into a stony hardness, and Draco thought he saw a small spasm of regret cross the older man's features. "The split. It has already begun. But it will end with us. Carthaga Delendae Est." He smiled and paused, and with one last breath, "Forgive me, son."

It happened quickly. As his father pulled the wand from beneath him, Draco reacted on pure instinct. He pulled a blade from the grip of a dead man to his right just as his father muttered the words, "Avada Kadavr -"

Draco would never forget the sound. He did not hear his own screaming. He did not hear the shouts of those behind him. Warm blood spurted into his eyes, his hair, his nose. All was numb and loud at the same time, overwhelming and calm and perfect. He heard only the blade going through muscle and sinew and bone. Again and again. And again. Until the blade was physically ripped from his hand. And then he heard himself. "SARA!" he screamed. "GINNY! You BASTARD! You sick BASTARD!" His screams echoed through the fields. "YOU TOOK IT AWAY! You took it away!"

Strong arms around him, pulling him. His whole body shook with the sobs he had not allowed himself days before when entering his country home to find the lifeless bodies of his wife and child.

"All right, Malfoy. All right." The voice was distant. Sad. Almost cold in comparison to the warmth of its owner's embrace. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Fought. The boy, Draco thought, who had died in this field with the rest of them. They were now men of sin, men of regret, and men of ghosts.

Half a mile away in a battered tent filled with tormented groans and fresh death, Seamus Finnigan put a final bandage on the shoulder of an unconscious Albus Dumbledore and in a haunted whisper said, "I think Draco has found Lucius."

Across the tent, Hestia Jones leaned against a table and absently pushed away a cardboard sign labeled "Intelligence Section" that hung in the air by magic above stacks of parchment and a couple of exhausted owls. The witch looked up from a newly arrived correspondence from the President of the United Magical States of America, her eyes large and wet, her face pale. "The Dark Mark as disappeared from above Washington. The Allies are reclaiming the city and the Death Eaters are fleeing." With one great sigh, she rasped in a small voice, "The Allies have won."

"Similar reports are coming from Madrid, Amsterdam, and Vienna," Neville Longbottom said in disbelief from behind her, holding up pieces of parchment in his bloodstained hands. A tired grin broke out on his muddied face. "Dear Merlin." He called out to Seamus. "Does this mean I've won my 5,000 Galleons from Avery?"

Seamus cleared his throat as he moved from Dumbledore to a moaning wizard with third degree burns covering his chest and arms. "I believe Avery's dead, Neville."

Neville frowned. "Right, right. Oh well then, serves him right, the old bastard," though the tremble in his voice revealed otherwise. He threw down the parchment. "I'm going to find Hagrid. Got to take care of the Red Caps before the buggers get out of hand. One threw a boulder at Cho this morning - knocked her out for hours. Almost missed half the battle, she did."

"I'm right here," Cho said from a cot near the entrance to the tent. She was holding a bloodied bandage to her head and wincing at her left leg. "Foolish, perhaps, but certainly not deaf." As she watched a Mediwitch pull a stained sheet over the lifeless body of a witch in the cot beside her, Cho said in a haunted whisper, "Wish to Merlin I had missed it."

At that moment, Hermione Granger stormed past Neville and Jones as they walked out of the tent. Oblivious and hurried, she headed to a blood-spattered pack lying on the ground in the Intelligence Section. She was holding a cloth to her forehead, which Seamus noticed had already been bled through, and in her other hand was a crumpled piece of parchment. Stuffing the paper in her pocket and retrieving the pack, Hermione grabbed her broom from behind a collection of shelves, and another that stood beside it. "Seamus, I'm going to fetch Harry -"

"Whoa, whoa. You're bleeding pretty badly there, 'Mione."

But she continued on as though she hadn't heard him. "-- We're going to search for Ron -" She was looking for her spare wand.

"At least let me look at your head."

" - we'll go to get the message first -" She slipped the slender wood into its holster and began looking around for another weapon.

"'Mione, please. You'll only injure yourself further."

" - there's no time -"

Seamus grabbed her arm as she sheathed a large blade into a holster on her leg. "Hermione!" And his voice faltered. Desperation and urgency permeated the air around her, the muscle under his hand was taunt and quivering. Her wide eyes dared him to make another move. Her bottom lip was trembling. Softer, he said, "Hermione. Two minutes."

"Ron is out there somewhere, and he must be lost, Seamus. He must be -"

Seamus managed to gently push her down onto a free cot. "Two minutes," he said, wiping the blood from her forehead and pressing his wand to the wound. He began whispering incantations under his breath.

"One and a half," she muttered.

Seamus concentrated on her head wound, making certain that there was no permanent damage. And then, after a few more whispers and a tense sigh, he finished and handed Hermione the brooms. "Go," he said. "Bring Ron back home safely."

Hermione tried to smile, but couldn't and bit her bottom lip instead. "Thanks, Seamus," she said softly, pecking the Chief Healer on the cheek and making him blush. "I'll see you again soon."

Seamus watched her leave and knew, though not quite knowing how, that he would not see her face again in this life, and he mourned for it. With a heavy heart, he turned back towards his patients. More were pouring in every second and there weren't enough Mediwizards, Mediwitches and Healers to handle the load.

It wasn't long before Charles Weasley came fuming into the tent, tearing off his tattered robe and throwing it to the ground. "Seamus!"

While he'd managed to return his skin to its natural color, his chest and back were covered with lacerations, blood, and dirt. A Mediwizard immediately began applying potion to the wizard's cuts.

"I've got to go to Romania." He reached for a spare robe on one of the makeshift supply shelves Dean Thomas had hastily constructed out of broken Firebolts and Nimbuses.

Seamus was about to reply before the wizard continued, his voice high with anger and strain. "They've decided to attack my dragon reserve, the bastards." Charlie pulled on the robe as the Mediwizard who had just finished applying potion to the last cut moved on to a witch who barely made it through the entrance of the tent before collapsing.

"I swear if ONE of my keepers or dragons is touched, I will -" His voice gave away, his hands on his head, his legs pacing quickly as he looked to the ground. "Merlin, Merlin, got to calm down." He looked up as Seamus grabbed his shoulder and led him behind a curtain, away from prying eyes. Seamus saw the same desperation in those blue eyes that he had minutes before in Hermione's. "Where's Harry?" Charlie asked absently.

"He's gone with Hermione to search for Ron."

Charlie began to pace once more, his movement hindered by the curtain. "Right. Ron. Ron. He's gone, isn't he? Do you think he's all right, Seamus? Do you think they - they -- do you think, well he must be cold, he hasn't got his cloak, has he?" Even as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "And Ginny -" At this he faltered, he squeezed his head in his hands. "Oh gods, Seamus," he half-sobbed. "My little - my little - Merlin, how does it work? How does it happen? I can't do this, I don't think I can. How do you keep - how do you keep ... going?"

"You just do, Charlie," Seamus said quietly, battling against his own emotions which seemed to cloud his mind when Ginny's name was mentioned. "You just do it. You haven't got a choice."

"My dragons. My dragons. And father hasn't even owled yet from the States." He was rubbing his right arm furiously, as though trying to bring feeling into it.

"We've just received a response," his voice soothing. "The Allies have recaptured Washington."

Charlie looked up and sighed with relief, eyes wild and glittering, eyes that would haunt Seamus for the rest of his days. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

At this, Charlie seemed to gather himself. With one deep breath, his whole demeanor changed. "Right. Right. Father's fine. I've got to get to Romania. I'll be back as soon as things are covered."

He pushed aside the curtain and retrieved his broom, wiping the blood off it with his clean robe. "Remus has returned to his office at the Ministry. I sent Tonks to London to get some documents deciphered, and Snape has taken over the responsibility of the Death Eaters. He's in charge until Dumbledore wakes. I've already told Abbot to begin a count of the wounded and the able." He turned to Malcolm Baddock, who had taken Neville's place in the intelligence section and was writing several brief correspondences on the defeat of the Dark Lord. "Any word from the Resistance?"

Baddock shook his head and without looking up, said, "Not for three days. The Allies have already dispatched witches and wizards to Berlin and Munich to offer any aid that is needed to the Germans."

Charlie nodded his approval. "I have strong suspicions that Snape will want to travel east very soon."

Stuart Ackerly, an exhausted, rosy-cheeked Mediwizard, shouted from the cot to their right. "I could use some German beer!"

Those that could, mumbled in agreement, and a few "Hear! Hear!"s could be heard from the other side of the tent.

"Send correspondence to the Ministry," Charlie told Baddock. "Request a team from the Department of Magical Catastrophes to return our fallen to their homes. The Ant-Muggle Wards need to be reinforced before nightfall. We've got to send for more Healers -"

"Done," Baddock said tersely, finally looking up. "Done, done, done. For Merlin's sake, Weasley, go! We'll be fine. Go, go, go." He turned back to his parchments.

"Right." He smoothed down his robes. "Right."

Seamus lowered his voice and spoke softly in Charlie's ear all the lies he knew the man needed to hear. "Ron will be fine. Your father is working miracles in the States. Bill and the twins are wreaking havoc in downtown Paris." He paused. "You've got to keep your head on straight, Weasley, or you'll be taken out." Whether by a Death Eater, or the Order itself, Seamus did not specify.

A pause. "Right," Charlie nodded, and his eyes seemed clearer, as though this last admonition had woken him from a daze. "Yes, of course. I'm fine." A sigh. "I'm fine, it's fine, now."

"Of course it is," Seamus gave a sad smile. "Now, go, go."

Charlie took a deep breath and then strode out of the tent, calling behind him, "Don't die or anything while I'm away!"

Seamus shook his head. "Getting right on that, Weasley," he muttered, taking a look at the wounded witches and wizards that surrounded him. Some smiled at Charlie's shouted adieu.

"He sure knows how to put a farewell," Ernie McMillan said grimly, waiting for an arm to be healed and then wrapped by a Healer.

"I think he's learned the hard way," Seamus said to himself, looking through the entrance of the tent, into the bloodied battlefield that had been his living hell for the past 36 hours. He watched as a now composed Draco Malfoy approached, giving orders to a younger wizard about the detention of the captured Death Eaters. Seamus whispered, "I think we all have."

************************************************************************

September 19, 1996

Early afternoon

'It all started when ....'

No, no, scratch that.

'Well, you see, when we were ...'

No, that won't work either.

Bugger.

'It was 1995, and the Wizarding World ...'

Blech.

'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ...'

No, I'm sure I've heard that before somewhere. And it certainly was NOT the best of anything.

Bugger. Bloody fuckedy fuck.

Right.

'My name is Neville Longbottom.'

Well.

Now, that's an excellent start, if I do say so myself.

'I am currently in my sixth year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In June of 1995 -"

"Bugger!"

Bugger.

Neville Longbottom suppressed a groan at the interruption and turned from his growing pile of crumpled parchments to find Hermione Granger throwing herself into the oversized armchair across from him with an uncharacteristic swear.

"I need sunshine! I need something ... GREEN, for Merlin's sake!" She leaned her head back and threw out her arms dramatically, her bushy brown hair almost reaching the crimson rug. A silver bracelet on her left wrist flashed in the firelight and Crookshanks wandered up to her, sniffing her upside down nose. Hermione puckered her lips at him and he padded off, settled himself in front of the fire, and glared at Ron.

Hermione's shirt had ridden up a bit, and Neville could see the faint puckered scar starting at her abdomen. He wondered if it slashed across her chest, like the purple streak from Dolohov's wand had done. He wondered if it still hurt sometimes.

It was raining outside.

It was her birthday.

Neville stared at his parchment and wondered why he even tried anymore.

Ronald Weasley spoke up from his chess game with his sister. "Stop whining, 'Mione. You sound like Lavender when Professor Trelawney took a week's holiday to cleanse her aura." Ron's voice was bitter and sad, and Neville could already feel a headache forming behind his eyes.

Hermione gasped, and promptly threw a pillow at her best friend's head. Ron ducked, "Knight, E5." And a soft yelp from Seamus Finnagon.

Ron's knight smashed Ginny's bishop to bits. She didn't say a word.

"What's the big idea?" Seamus asked, rubbing his head. "Can't a hormone-crazed adolescent wizard read his Quidditch Quarterly in peace?" With that, he threw the pillow back towards Ron, who ducked once more with a howl.

It landed at Neville's feet.

But Hermione wasn't paying attention. She was staring at the fire.

Most of the Gryffindor students were in the Great Hall, participating in activities led by Professor Dumbledore in an attempt to fight the boredom caused by two weeks of nasty weather. The Gryffindor Common Room, therefore, was left fairly empty, and the five Sixth Years and Ginny were taking advantage of the peace and quiet. Dean Thomas and Seamus were laying on a rug by the window, surrounded by old Quidditch magazines, trading cards, and untouched school books.

"Do you think Hitler really planned to conquer half of Europe? Suppose it just ... happened?"

Hermione had been asking these types of questions a lot lately. Out of the blue, all blank stares and bitten lips. All who knew her had learned that the questions were rhetorical, and should most definitely not be answered back.

"Sod off and read a book on it," Ron scowled.

All, that is, except Ron.

Neville sat back and waited for the onslaught.

"It's bad enough that I've been stuck inside the past two weeks," Ron continued, "without you whining in my ear and initiating an air strike against my head."

"Don't be so bloody stuck-up, Ronald Weasley," Hermione replied acidly. "If there's anyone who has been completely intolerable, it's you."

"So why don't you go bother Bryce Bloom then, and spare the rest of us your insufferable presence?"

Hermione sat up straight in her chair. "Is that what all of this is about?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Ron stood and began gathering his things. Ginny watched with a quiet air of detachment.

Hermione stood, as well, placing her hands on her hips in a pose they had all seen many times before. "It was one date, you know. It's not like it meant anything."

"'Mione," Ron said, pausing long enough to look her in the eye. "Marry him, for all I care. You deserve each other, really. He'll have hell dealing with you all the time."

Hermione's jaw dropped as Ron climbed the stairs into his dormitory without a look back.

Neville thought she looked as though she might cry. But he knew she wouldn't.

And then Ron called, "What? Queen Know-It-All has nothing to say? Neville, call the Minister of Magic! House elves will be taking over the world any moment!" And with that, he slammed the door.

The Common Room became awkwardly silent, and Neville stared at the parchment in front of him uncomfortably. Well, rather more disinterestedly concerned, but he was sure he was supposed to feel somewhat uncomfortable in situations such as these.

Then Hermione grabbed her bag and muttered, "If anyone asks, I'm in the library." The door snicked softly behind her.

Ginny had disappeared.

Neville sat in his chair and stared at Ginny's shattered bishop. "Dean?" he called.

"What?" the boy said, looking up from an article on Viktor Krum.

"How much longer 'til Christmas?"

"Three months and six days."

"Right." Neville sighed.

It was so tiresome listening to those two quarrel all of the time.

Everyone was tiresome these days. Everyone was tense. Everyone was pretending.

They were all waiting.

And then Neville wondered where Harry was, though he thought he might know. It was a secret that Harry didn't even know Neville kept. Neville had many of these secrets.

Harry Potter had become prone to staring out the window in every class but Potions, which had no windows. He was all exhaustion, heavy sighs, and twisted smiles since Sirius had fallen. And Neville could sense, though he did not yet know how, the bruises hidden behind charms, and he smelled the blood that had been washed away. But he kept it to himself. Really, he had no choice.

It was only September. Neville didn't see an end. He only saw his grandmother's tears and remembered Harry's crazed whispers ('Don't let her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead ...'), and woke up with aching bones and his parents' screams.

It was only September and it was already starting. Breakfast had become solemn and watchful. Breakfast meant owls, and with owls came news. Every student dreaded being called to Dumbledore's office, for surely it meant that something far too horrible had happened to mention in an owl.

As for Dumbledore ... He had become a General. Serious and thoughtful and diplomatic. The War pressed upon him, and sometimes Neville would watch the Headmaster and silently plead the old wizard to throw his hands up in the air and yell, "I'm too old for this!" At least maybe then the twinkle would come back.

And, oh, Neville knew that it hadn't really started. He knew that they'd only dipped their toes into what Voldemort would eventually lead them through. And he also knew that he would follow. He eyed Ginny's bishop. Really, he had no choice.

"Where's Hermione?"

A voice from behind, and his heart was beating so hard in his chest, he thought he might not breathe again. Jumping out of his chair, "Merlin, Harry, trying to give a bloke a heart attack, are you?"

He'd been so far deep in thought, he hadn't even noticed Dean and Seamus packing up their things and heading to the Great Hall. The Common Room was empty.

"Sorry 'bout that, but have you seen her?"

And it was Harry's eyes that made Neville's breath catch and heart drop. Terrified. Resigned. Confused. Angry. Euphoric. They were black. Neville looked away. His eyes found the green of a cushion, and he said, "She's in the library."

Harry was soaked to the bone. And pale. Was he shaking? And was that -

"I was only for a walk." As if this would justify his eyes being black and hateful.

Neville took a step back. "Right."

"And Ron?"

"Upstairs," Neville pointed towards their dormitory stairs. "They argued." He sighed and sat down in the chair. "The world's gone to hell and all they care about is who the other one's snogging."

Harry seemed as though he wanted to say something, but didn't. His only answer was a long stare at the fire and then a soft "goodbye" as he headed back out the door.

"Oh, and Harry," Neville called out, turning to look at Harry, because he knew, and he somehow knew that Hermione shouldn't.

"Yes?"

"You missed a spot on your sleeve. The right one."

"What are you - oh." Harry touched the sleeve and when he pulled his fingers away, they were wet and red.

Their eyes met for a long moment, and then Harry found that Neville knew, and had possibly known all along. And then Harry began to laugh. It was wild and pure and a bit mad, but the green was back, and Harry stared back at the fire and said, "Well, I've done it, Neville. And I daresay, I don't regret it, though I feel as though I should." Neville did not recognize this voice, but couldn't turn his head from a rare smile on Harry Potter's face. "Do you think I deserve my reputation now? Do you think I could fit into it well enough?" He pulled a Time Turner from round his neck and stared at it.

Neville only shook his head, because he had already known, and because it had been his secret. "Sorry, mate, but I think you're still a bit scrawny and pale to be the Boy Who Lived. Try next year. Or the year after."

For a moment, Neville had thought that maybe Harry had killed Voldemort. But his eyes were green and his face was pale and he was looking for Hermione. 'Someone else then,' Neville thought and turned to face the fire.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Neville looked at the chess set in front of him and wondered what his role would be in this fight. A knight? A pawn? Perhaps a stoic bishop? "Harry," he called once more, before the Common Room door could close on his voice.

Pause.

"Yeah?"

Neville turned to look at his friend once more. He paused, not quite sure what he wanted to say. "I - I know you think you're alone in this, Harry. But, well," a breath, "... you're not."

The Boy Who Lived stared at him for moment, as though caught in another secret. "Yeah." He licked his top lip. "Yeah."

Neville returned to the fire and listened to the closing of the Common Room door and thought, Really, I just want a normal adolescence. He looked at the chess set. "A rook then," he said to himself, picking up the piece and rubbing the smooth marble between his fingers. And whether or not his words were true, whether or not he would come to play a major or minor role in this war, he vowed to himself then and there that he would not play a pawn. He had too much to avenge. Too much to live up to.

"My mum once stunned three Death Eaters blindfolded," he said to the fire. "Once."

With another sigh, he gave up on his Very Recent History assignment and grabbed a book from the table in front of him: Why Witches and Wizards Go Bad: The Psychology and Characteristics of Death Eaters.

"Normal, indeed," he muttered at the fire.

And he waited.

End Chapter 1.